


Can't Buy Me Love

by kay_emm_gee



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Class Issues, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Falling In Love, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-28 10:25:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5087020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kay_emm_gee/pseuds/kay_emm_gee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke Griffin’s first introduction to the industrial town of Mechton is the gruff, harsh Bellamy Blake, and from that ill-fated meeting alone, she can’t imagine how she will begin to call this new place home. Soon, though, she finds that places grow on you, and also that people change, but only if you are willing to let yourself change as well. </p><p>{ A Bellarke AU based on North & South by Elizabeth Gaskell }</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can't Buy Me Love

**Author's Note:**

> This fic has been my baby for the past month, mostly because writing Victorian-era fic is incredibly difficult. I tried my best to balance the social issues within the story fairly, so it may stretch believability at times. I hope it still is convincing! Also, truth: never have read the book, so this is based on the BBC miniseries adaptation. Enjoy :)

Clarke coughed into her handkerchief, because the air in Mr. Blake’s office was not much cleaner than the smog that permeated the streets outside.

Mechton was living up to its reputation as a dirt-filled, breakneck-paced, clanging industrial town, a far cry from the peaceful southern county of Arcadia where she had grown up. And where she had lived, up until her father had announced two months prior that they would be moving north, as he no longer wanted to teach at the local university. Instead, he sought to tutor privately now. From the strained looks that her parents had exchanged the entire train ride to their new home, however, Clarke knew there had to be more to it. Still, they were now city dwellers, ones in need of a home.

That was why she was here, waiting for Mr. Blake. He was a business associate of her parents’ friend, Mr. Kane, and had found lodgings for them. Her parents were meeting with the potential tutoring students, so Mr. Blake and 319 Ark Street had been left to her--that is, if he ever showed up.

Huffing in frustration, Clarke stood and strode out of the room. Her skirts swished around her ankles as she paced down the hallway towards the door to the cotton mill. She wasn’t going to wait another minute for the ungracious Mr. Blake. Her family need a house, and they needed it now. Nothing could have stopped her--not the grumbling foreman chasing after her, not the way the door stuck as she tried to open, not propriety. What did stop her was the astonishing sight that greeted her when she entered the mill.

White--the air was white with floating cotton. Whatever space wasn’t filled with cotton instead was loaded with the overwhelming whirring and clunking of the looms aligned in rows that stretched back for what seemed like half a mile. Clarke’s breath caught in her throat as she stared down at the workers bustling around, moving almost as fast as the machines. Then she coughed again, and realized her breath hadn’t choked her--it had been cotton.

It only grew worse as she moved down onto the floor itself, wandering through the aisles looking for a man she had never met. When a pair of children skidded by carrying baskets of material, her eyes widened. They were so young to be working, yet knew their way around the mill well. She grimaced, thinking that they should be in school.

A shout, loud enough to be heard over the looms, startled her for a moment. When it sounded again, however, she raced around the corner and saw two men struggling.

“Please,” the man pinned against the wall pleaded. “Please, I have little ones at home! I can’t lose my place.”

“Too late, Atom,” his attacker growled. “You have no one to blame but yourself.”

Clarke inhaled sharply as he shoved aside the man, who lost his balance and stumbled to the ground. With a snarl, the fallen man--Atom--lashed out with his foot but was subdued again by a few well-placed punches. Unable to stand idly by any longer, Clarke intervened.

“Stop that!” She cried, shoving the standing man away from the victim, who took the opportunity to scamper off.

“Yes, run Atom! And don’t show your face here again!” The attacker yelled after the escapee, then whipped around to face Clarke. Her gaze locked on angry, wild brown eyes almost obscured by wilder brown curls. His hair barely brushed the starched collar of his shirt, which was loosened at the neck and not covered by a coat.

“And who are you?” He snarled, brown skin shaded red with fury.

She gaped at him, and he didn’t wait for an answer, turning instead to the sulking foreman who had followed her. “Miller, who is she?”

“This is Miss Griffin,” he replied grimly.

The man’s nostrils flared, then he sniffed and ran a large hand through his hair. Tipping his head back, he sighed, then caught her eye again, coldness and indifference where so much emotion had been previously.

“Miss Griffin,” he said stiffly. “I am Mr. Blake, and I welcome you and your family to Mechton, but I would kindly appreciate you not interfering in my business matters.”

A sharp pang of indignence shot through Clarke’s chest. “I will certainly interfere when a man’s health and safety is on the line. You may be their boss, but do not have the right to--”

“What is one man’s safety when dozens of others’ safety is on the line?” Mr. Blake interrupted bluntly, stepping forward to loom over her, to glower. “Not that it is any of you business, but today is the second time I have caught Atom smoking in here. And what would happen if all of this cotton, this very flammable cotton, was set ablaze because he was negligent with his pipe?”

“You would lose your profit,” Clarke shot back sourly.

Blake’s eyes flashed at her tone. “Yes, I would, but worse, much worse, my workers would also lose their lives. Along with the destruction of my mill--”

“Yes, your mill. Protect your mill, of course!”

“--my _mill_ ,” Blake hissed. “Which supplies so very many with the income needed to support their families, their children. Industry, as despicable as it may seem to you people, is the lifeblood of this town, and you’d best learn to appreciate it.”

He had stepped so close that Clarke could sense as well as see the way his chest heaved, worked up as he was. Her jaw clenched in frustration, more words of argument waiting on the tip of her tongue. There was a beat, a moment, where her quickened breaths were in time with his, but then he stepped away.

“Miller, please escort Miss Griffin out. I will meet with her father at a later time.”

Clarke started to reply, but Blake was gone faster than she could speak, flying down the aisle, workers scattering away and back to their tasks as he passed by them.

“Ass,” she muttered under her breath, resisting Miller’s tugging grip for only a moment. As she finally followed him out to the mill gate, Clarke sincerely hoped that once Mr. Blake settled her family in their new home, his path would not cross hers again. 

* * *

 

The new wallpaper in their rented home had barely finished drying, however, before Clarke encountered the callous, harsh Mr. Blake again.

He just appeared in her family’s parlor one afternoon, books tucked neatly under his arm and face expressionless, though that didn’t last long upon seeing her. His brow tightened, and his jaw clenched.

“Mr. Blake,” she muttered, dipping into a slight curtsy.

“Miss Griffin.” Clutching his books tighter with one hand, he extended the other. , which Clarke stared at, not knowing how to gracefully decline his breach of propriety.

Just as she reached out to take it, seeing no other option, her father swept in, a delighted grin on his face for their guest. It was the first time he had smiled since her parent’s recent argument. Apparently her mother did not agree that a question of conscience regarding the university’s integrity when it came to graduating failing but rich students was enough of a reason for her father to quit and uproot them here. It made Clarke’s heart ache to see him how he used to be, how he rarely still was anymore.

“Ah, you’re right on time!” He said, clapping Blake on the back.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Bellamy snatch his hand away from the space between him and her, clenching it before offering it to her father.

“It’s good to see you again, Mr. Griffin.”

Clarke narrowed her gaze at Bellamy’s suddenly warm tone. It seemed she was the only Griffin with which he had a problem.

“I see you’ve met Clarke.”

“Yes,” Bellamy said shortly, and Clarke faked a smile.

“You’re lucky,” she said to her father brightly. “Mr. Blake is an opinionated man, as I learned not too long ago. You’ll have quite the pupil.”

Her grin grew genuine when she felt Bellamy tense beside her.

“It also seems I have an opinionated daughter,” her father mused dryly.

He then laughed, either at her responding frown or their guest’s poorly concealed smirk, and amusement twinkled  in his light eyes. “I’d ask you to join us, Clarke, but I fear I’d not get a word in edgewise, and Bellamy did come here to learn.”

After rolling her eyes, Clarke sprung up and planted a smacking kiss on her father’s cheek. “Just for that, I’m not bringing you back anything from the bakery.”

In mock-affront, her father clutched his chest. “Ungrateful child.”

“Maybe I’ll share,” she teased before grabbing her cloak and hat from the entryway.

“At least bring back something for Mr. Blake!” He called after her. “Studying Plato will no doubt stir up his appetite.”

Clarke fiddled with the ribbons on her hat as she asked, “Anything you would like in particular, Mr. Blake?”

“No,” he replied bluntly.

“Not one to indulge?” She asked archly, catching his eye square on as she lingered in the doorway.

He stared right back, gaze narrowing in on her hat as he tugged on the hem of his plain coat. “We are not an indulgent people, up here.”

She felt her cheeks pink at the pointed remark and dropped her hands quickly from the ties of her embroidered coat. “Noted,” she muttered before turning on her heel.

As the door slammed closed behind her, she thought she heard the beginnings of an apology from Bellamy to her father, but it didn’t soothe her anger one bit. Annoyance and frustration soon followed, growing as she walked downtown and dodged the vendors and workers that filled the Mechton streets. So consumed, she even flew past the bakery without noticing. By the time Clarke realized her mistake, she was halfway across town, winded and struggling to contain the hair tumbling haphazardly out of the knot at the back of her head.

“Hells bells,” she breathed, racing through the streets back to the shop. She made it there just before closing, thanking the shopkeeper profusely for his hurried efforts to collect her orders. The walk home was just as hurried, as she wanted to make it back before dark. It was more difficult to maneuver the streets now, however, as they were increasingly more crowded. The whistle had sounded not long ago, signaling an end to the work day at the mills, thus the crush of workers making their way home. When the fourth person slammed into her, almost knocking her package to the ground, however, Clarke’s patience snapped.

“Excuse you!” She complained.

“Sorry, Your Highness,” the woman, dressed in factory clothes and with a high ponytail, drawled. “I didn’t see you there. But then again, maybe you didn’t see me, with your nose up in the air like that.”

“You’ve got a mouth on you.”

“So do you. That’s a nice surprise from a country tutor’s daughter.” The woman laughed at Clarke’s startled reaction. “Even in a town as big as this, we know who the newcomers are, Miss Griffin.”

“Nice to meet you, Miss--?”

The woman folded her arms across her chest, waiting for a few moments of intentional uncomfortability. “Reyes. Raven Reyes,” she finally said.

“Miss Reyes, would you like a pastry?”

“A bribe? So very industrial. You’re fitting in here already.”

Clarke snorted. “A gift, from one friend to another.”

“So we’re friends now?”

“You’ve got a mouth on you,” Clarke repeated dryly. “I like that in my friends.”

Raven shook her head, half-smiling. “Another time, friend. I’ve got a home to get back to.”

“I could visit you there. As friends do.”

“Is that customary in the south?” She needled. “To invite yourself over to people’s homes?”

“Is it customary in the south to only visit in the street?” She shot back.

“Fair enough.”

There was a soft tug at her pocket, and Clarke snatched at the wrist of whomever was trying to pickpocket her.

“Drop it, Murphy,” Raven sighed, pressing the knife she had slipped from seemingly nowhere against the man’s throat.

“What the hell, Raven?” He muttered, yanking his wrist away and stepping back. “She’s an easy mark.”

“This _she_ is a friend,” Clarke snapped.

Murphy snorted, then frowned when Raven just shrugged in agreement.

“So we’re friends with _them_ now?”

“She’s not a master,” Raven argued.

“But she’s their _friend_ too,” Murphy muttered. “I’ve heard Blake is going to be tutored by her father.”

“Mr. Blake may be a friend of my father’s, but he’s not friend of mine,” Clarke blurted, regretting it when she saw both Raven’s and Murphy’s brows rise in surprise.

Murphy smiled thinly, flipping his long, greasy hair out of his face. “Well, well. You may just be our type of friend after all.”

“Don’t be an ass,” Raven sighed, flashing a grimace at Clarke. “Sorry about him. I tried to strangle all of the rudeness out of him when we were younger. It didn’t take.”

“And you wonder why I think about shooting you sometimes,” Murphy muttered.

“It seems you two are dangerous friends to have,” Clarke mused, only half-serious.

Raven and Murphy exchanged a knowing glance.

“Only if you get on our bad side, Miss Griffin. Now we have to be getting home. It was a pleasure,” Raven offered in farewell, along with that same half-smile that had lingered on her face earlier, before she and Murphy merged again with the flood of workers leaving the mills.

“Friends indeed,” Clarke murmured as she braved the crowd herself, eager to get back to the house that was her refuge in this strange city.

* * *

 

The next weeks were busy for Clarke, filled with visits made and received. Mrs. Blake and Miss Blake stopped by soon enough, eager to get to know the family that had apparently captivated their relative.

“He cannot shut up about the Greeks now,” Miss Blake--rather, Octavia, as she had insisted being called, despite her mother’s disapproval--sighed. “Not that he didn’t talk about them before. He just has someone to encourage him now.”

“I know the feeling,” Abby replied. “My husband’s mouth is running away with him more and more these days, too, I’ve noticed.”

“And I definitely like you, Miss Griffin,” Octavia continued with a conspiratorial smile. “You’ve lit a fire under my brother, and I thought only I could do that.”

“Octavia,” Mrs. Blake warned as Clarke's cheeks warmed furiously.

“He is more than capable of returning the favor,” she replied, but the way Octavia’s eyes brightened at the comment made her wish she had kept it to herself.

One thing she did keep was her promise to Raven, proving ‘impolite’ enough to call on her without invitation, but her new friend did not really seem to mind. She welcomed her with a wry grin, and Murphy only made three snide comments before letting it go. Even though their home consisted of one room, which she and Murphy and four parentless children shared, it was nice--filled with Raven’s gruff instructions while teaching the children how to build mini-looms to practice on and Murphy’s dry humor that equally annoyed and amused everyone.

“They’re all orphans?” Clarke asked in a hushed voice when Murphy took over their lessons.

Raven shot her a careful, hard look. “We like our life up here, but it is not an easy one. Murphy and I know too well what it’s like to live on the streets, with no one looking out for you but you. So we help where we can, even though we want to punch each other half the time.”

“I’m sorry,” she offered hurriedly.

Raven snorted. “Chuck out that pity right now. That is one country sentiment we absolutely won't put up with here.”

“I’m sorry!”

“You do apologize quite a lot,” she commented dryly.

“That I’m not sorry about.”

Raven chuckled, her gaze turning to the kids again. “I only wish we could take in more of them,” she sighed. “Even with all of us working, we can’t afford it.”

“Do the masters really pay you that little?”

“It could be better, of course, but our positions are for the most part alright. Blake’s and Forrester’s wages are fine, but the masters at Shumway’s and Ridley’s are snakes. Shit pay and no consideration for preventing cotton cough, but folks are desperate. Some will work anywhere.”

“Cotton cough?”

“Cotton gets inhaled, caught and stuck in the lungs. Gives you a nasty cough and an early retirement, from work and from life.”

It took Clarke a minute, but she caught the drift, grimacing when one of the girls started hacking loudly.

“Charlotte actually used to live in one of the mills,” Raven said softly, watching Murphy rub the child’s back. “She’d hide in the storeroom at night after the workers let out. It may have kept her warm while sleeping, but now she has a cough that rivals that of some who’ve been working in the mills for twice as long as she has been alive.”

There were many things Clarke wished to say, but she knew her questions and suggestions would be naÏve and unhelpful. So she just stayed silent. Instead, during her visits, she put her efforts towards teaching the children some simple medical care, like how to splint fingers and massage kinks out of muscles, techniques that would be useful for minor work-related injuries. Most times it was joyful work, seeing them take pleasure in learning something new, but then it was hard to keep her hands from shaking in rage when the kids would so casually mention how one girl’s loose hair got stuck in the machinery, pulling it all out, or how a man’s arm got caught in some gears and he had to have it amputated. This was their reality, and it pained her that even though she lived not far from them, that she had a very different, easier life than they probably ever would. It wasn’t pity she felt anymore, because she admired them, and Raven and Murphy, and their strength. It was concern, because they truly were turning out to be friends, real ones.

It made going home harder, because Bellamy’s visits grew more frequent, and he was not becoming her friend in the least. If anything, their interactions had worsened, as her father had relented and allowed her to join in some of his lessons, which resulted in nothing but explosive arguments between her and Bellamy. Sometimes Clarke would antagonize him on purpose, arguing for a side that she did not support in truth, just to see how many of his buttons she could push. She ignored the way her father smiled knowingly whenever she did that, choosing to focus instead on the tick in Bellamy’s jaw or how his words would fly out with more and more passion the harder she pushed. Because of this, his, or rather their, lessons often spilled into dinnertime, so many nights Bellamy ended up dining with her family, even staying afterwards to finish the debates.

Clarke was very adept at controlling her frustration with him, unlike him with her, and she clung to that fact triumphantly. There were some nights, though, when it was hard--nights after she had spent the day with a hollowed-eyed, exhausted Raven who had worked an extended shift, or with Charlotte on one of her bad days, when she could barely breathe without coughing.

It was the night after she had watched Charlotte had cough up blood along with cotton, when Bellamy made an offhand comment about the apparent lack of commitment from workers migrating from the southern part of country, that she lost it.

“They may not be as productive as your local employees,” Clarke snapped, “but they’re also not brought up to believe they have to work themselves halfway to the grave just to put food on the table.”

“And you yourself know what is required to put food on the table?” Bellamy retorted, leaning forward to brace his elbows on his knees.

Clarke ignored the way her parents shifted uncomfortably. “I know that a good deal of people here endangering themselves just to survive.”

“You know people.” His lips twisted up sarcastically, his eyes glinting in the firelight. “Who from the mills do _you_ know?”

She hesitated, because even though she would do a lot of things to win this argument, she wasn’t about to put targets on Raven’s or Murphy’s backs.

“That’s what I thought,” Bellamy muttered, and her anger flared.

“I know I spent today by a young girl’s bedside, wiping blood from her lips, putting salve on her chest, just so she could breathe despite the cotton clogging up and damaging her lungs,” Clarke hissed.

Her adversary closed his eyes briefly, exhaling. “We do all we can to protect our workers from that. Masks are mandatory, but my foreman can’t be everywhere at once to make sure people keep them on. Regulated shift lengths is something Forrester and I do at our own mills, but the other owners are tougher to convince. And if the workers want longer hours, though, who am I to tell them no?”

“They’ll do anything for more wages! You could fix that easily by increasing their pay.”

Bellamy’s hands clenched. “Ah. It seems you do know people from the mills. You’ve heard the rumors about a strike.”

“A strike?” Clarke’s father interjected. “Is it really that bad?”

“We’re hoping it won’t get to that,” Bellamy said, though he sounded tired, almost defeated.

Clarke steeled herself against the pang of sympathy it sparked in her. “If you compromise with them, it won’t.”

“And where do you suppose the money for their raises is going to come from? My suppliers won’t be happy if I suddenly tell them I can’t pay for the materials because I’ve increased wages, and then I won’t have material for the workers, and then the mill will shut down. So where will that raise get them then?”

“You could--”

“Don’t, Miss Griffin. I appreciate you trying, but as I told you when we first met, do not interfere with my business. You assume you know everything about life in Mechton, despite being here only a few months. You assume that I do not know what it is to work, to worry about providing for my family, to know what it is to be hungry. That couldn’t be farther from the truth.”

Bellamy paused, and Clarke almost spoke, almost asked him to forget the whole thing, because his grim expression triggered her guilt. She didn’t know anything about him, that was true enough, but the knowledge that he made assumptions and judged her just as harshly stopped her.

“Miss Griffin, it may be customary in the south to dance around delicate subjects, but we don’t mince words up here. So, you may know that I inherited the mill from my stepfather, who treated me like his own son, a lucky thing for me and my family. I was fifteen when he passed away, underage and therefore ineligible to take control on my own. Unfortunately, the executor of his will was not as upstanding as my stepfather had believed, and even when I came of age, he refused to hand over the reins. It seems there was some thought, on his part and on that of the investors, that I was not of the right--that I did not have the right _look_ ,” he paused bitterly, “to run the mill.”

Clarke pressed a hand to her mouth, shame beginning to wash through her, inside and out.

Taking a steadying breath, Bellamy continued, “It left myself, my mother, and my sister without any source of income, as all the family money was tied up in the mill. So I worked, at Shumway’s, right alongside everybody else, to, as you phrased it, put food on the table. And I use the word food loosely.”

He shot her a pointed look, and Clarke’s stomach turned over.

“I know what cotton feels like in the lungs,” he added, though there was a softer tone to his voice now. “It is not comfortable, even painful, but I can assure you, hunger pains can be worse. Eventually I got lucky--your friend Mr. Kane took an interest in my case, got me control of the mill back when I was twenty-three, but with it came massive debts. The man who had stolen it from me had essentially run into the ground, investing in speculation schemes that anyone with common sense would consider all risk and no reward. I’m still paying those debts off, in addition to providing the best life I can for my family and the best conditions I can for my workers. So you may mean well, Miss Griffin, but your suggestions, actually, are very much meaningless to me.”

Clarke sat frozen, knowing her cheeks were probably glowing red with embarrassment. The matching flush to Bellamy’s face, either from anger or unease at being so forthright or both, didn’t register with her until he had stood, gripping his hat in his hands.

“Like I said, we’re not very kind with our words here, and I apologize to you and your family for that,” he murmured. “But I won’t apologize for standing up for what I believe in, and I believe in the way I run my mill.”

He left with a brief dip of his head and quiet steps, and it unsettled Clarke. Her unease grew even worse when she realized that, after their fight tonight, Bellamy might no longer choose to be a guest at their home.

* * *

 

Bellamy did come back after a few weeks, but it was almost worse than him not returning at all. They avoided each other now. He said not a word to her when he passed her on the way to her father’s study, and she often found other places to be while he was in the house. There were no more debates about the Iliad or arguments over dinner that ended in one of them forfeiting with a grudgingly approving smile. It annoyed Clarke that she missed it, the time spent with him. How he had become such a staple in her life, she didn’t know, nor did she know how to fix it. Apologies danced on her tongue whenever she encountered him in the hall, but then the study door would crack open or her mother would call for her, and the moment would be lost. The more it happened--that pausing, those suspended seconds when they were on the verge of something--the more she felt Bellamy watching her. A glance from the corner of his eye, his stare following her when she walked away from him, a brief locking of gazes whenever she passed by the study. It wasn’t enough though, just flashes of him. It frustrated her, to see him everywhere but to feel constantly as if he were sand slipping between her fingers.

It was a surprise then, that she ended up right in the palm of his hands. Focused on the note in her hand, she hadn’t been watching where she was going as she strode away from the Blake house, having gotten the name of a good doctor from Aurora. Then, buttons and a cravat had been inches from her nose. Warm pressure steadied her at the shoulders, and when she looked, there was Bellamy.

“Miss Griffin,” he murmured.

Clarke inhaled; he smelled of metal and earth. “Mr. Blake.”

Her greeting seemed to startle him, and he jerked away.

“I’m sorry,” she said hastily, her cheeks burning when his expression tightened, no doubt wondering what exactly she was sorry for: the collision, or their last meeting.

For a moment, she hesitated, but when Bellamy took a half-step back, she stuck out her hand.

“Mr. Blake,” she repeated, softer this time, slower. Then, with certainty and intention, she said, “I’m sorry.”

When his warm palm slid against hers, her throat dried up. There were more callouses on his fingertips than she would have expected, though his grip was as decisive as the man himself. He shook her hand, once, twice, before pulling away. It was a second before she was able to let her hand drop, flexing her fingers as she watched his expression flit between amused and surprised.

“See, I’m learning,” she rasped out finally.

He chuckled, ducking his head briefly. Still, she caught his gaze again when he looked up, and held it, without mercy.

“You’ve visited my mother?” He asked, and she nearly smiled, because he wasn’t leaving her quite yet.

“Octavia, actually. I brought her a few novels.”

Bellamy pursed his lips. “Oh, joy.”

There was humor in his voice though, and Clarke bit her lip to hide a smile. They had argued quite a bit about novels in the past. Bellamy didn’t dislike them; he just wished there was more to them.

“We take what we can get,” she had replied tartly to that opinion. “If you know of a way to allow women more leeway with our interests, then by all means, start that initiative. I will be right by your side when you lead the charge, if that helps.”

“I wouldn’t be opposed to that,” he had said with a grin, and warmth had flared up in her chest at his words.

Even now with the cool wind tugging at her skirts in the middle of the mill yard, she could almost feel that warmth again. Then her chest contracted, pressure building, and the cough that had been plaguing her for the past week returned.

“Are you alright?” Bellamy blurted, catching her elbow to tug her closer.

It helped, being shielded by him, but it still took her a minute to catch her breath. “I’m fine.”

“Clarke,” he admonished, his mouth opening again when he realized his slip with her name.

“Bellamy,” she said softly, returning the favor to put him at ease.

He did ease, every one of his lines relaxing, and she felt his thumb brush against the inside of her arm. It didn’t last long though, as someone else then called her name. He pulled away, a mask of indifference falling over his face again before heading back towards the mill.

“So what happened to not ever being friends with Blake?” Raven remarked, linking her arm through Clarke’s as they began to leave the mill yard.

“Raven,” she warned.

“Murphy’s going to be pissed.”

“I can be friends with someone without needing Murphy’s approval,” she snapped.

Raven barked out a laugh. “Calm down. Murphy’s always pissed at something. Don’t worry about it. I won’t tell a soul.”

Sighing at the sarcasm in her friend’s voice, Clarke leaned her head on Raven’s shoulder. “Did you need me for something, or did you just want to cause trouble?”

“I always want to cause trouble, but--yes, I did need you.”

Clarke jerked her head up, not liking the grimness creeping into her friend’s voice. “What is it?”

Raven glanced around, lips remaining firmly sealed until they had walked a good distance away from the industrial district.

“It would be best if your father did not go to the lecture hall tonight.”

“Why?” Clarke demanded. “He always teaches there at that time. He says it’s one of his favorite parts of the week.”

“Just--ask him not to go.”

“Raven.” When her friend stayed silent, Clarke halted abruptly, forcing them to face off. “What is happening tonight? Tell me!”

“Your father agreed to let Murphy speak on a special topic tonight.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Clarke--”

“Tell me,” she growled. “Right now.”

Raven glared at her. “I don’t know if I should. Maybe you’ll run and tell Blake.”

“Now I don’t need to ask,” Clarke retorted. “It’s about the strike, isn’t it? You think I haven’t noticed Diana Sydney stopping by your house? How you and Murphy hush up whenever I come around now?”

“What do you expect us to do?”

They walked in silence, because she didn’t have an answer. Sighing, Clarke pulled away at the turn for her street. “I’ll try to stop my father from coming.”

“Thank you,” Raven said softly, squeezing Clarke’s arm before walking away.

* * *

 

Clarke was able to keep her father from the meeting, but she wasn’t able to stop the strike from coming. When it did indeed come, silence came with it. To Clarke, the stillness was somehow worse than the hum of running machines that had previously been audible from any corner of town. Now there was a heaviness to the air, a tension, one that only worsened when the cries of hungry men, women, and children rose up to fill the void.

She spent more and more time in the workers’ neighborhood, bringing food and blankets and medical supplies whenever she could. It earned her dark looks and disdainful whispers from her uptown neighbors, who were of the opinion that prolonging the strike would do nobody any good. When three weeks turned into four, she began to despair, because nothing she did would be enough. Even Raven and Murphy’s charges were weakening, and those two were the hardiest of the strikers. It nearly broke her heart when a man came by with his little girl, screaming at Raven, asking where Diana was, yelling about how his daughter was too hungry to even see straight anymore.

“Tor, Diana is doing all she can, but we have to keep together on this,” Raven argued.

“It’s not enough!” He cried, and his daughter clung to his legs, startled.

Murphy lunged forward, anger masking his own fear and desperation. “Here,” he snarled, tossing a pouch at the man. “We said the union would take care of you, and we will. Diana gave her word, and I’m giving you coin. Is that enough for you to believe us?”

The man left with a glare, and the room breathed a sigh of relief when the door slammed shut behind him.

After a minute, Clarke offered, again, “Maybe if I--”

“No,” Murphy grunted, getting up from his seat next to her. “We don’t need your help. Besides, Blake won’t listen to you, not about this.”

Clarke frowned, even knowing Murphy was right. It wasn’t that Bellamy was unfeeling--she had actually seen him meeting regularly with the strike leaders, one of the only mill owners to do so. It also hadn’t been a coincidence that the bundles of coins found nailed to doorways on the neediest of houses were contained in handkerchiefs that had “o.b.” stitched into the corners; there was no way Bellamy didn’t know of his sister’s ‘gifts’. Neither of the Blake siblings were bound to forget their own days as mill workers, even if they were on the opposite side now, and opposite was a loose term. If anyone could bridge the gap between the two groups, it was Bellamy. He seemed to just need a little push to make it so, and the way she knew his mind, her advocating for the workers might help. Still, she respected her friends’ wishes to stay out of it. For all of her time spent with them, she was still an outsider, one of the privileged, and she knew it.

Then the unthinkable happened: weakened by hunger, Charlotte succumbed to her cough, passing away one rainy afternoon. Raven had stormed out, not returning until well after sunset. Murphy though, had just stared at the floor as he told Clarke, "Go to Blake. Do whatever you can."

The very next day Clarke waited outside the Town Hall meeting room, where Mechton’s mill owners were gathering to discuss their next moves regarding the strike. Pacing the hallway, she kept glancing at the door, behind which the voices were becoming louder, angrier. Blake was the most talkative, his words unintelligible through the wood but the passion in them as clear as day. Threads of pride and worry tangled themselves in Clarke’s chest--would he listen to her, or would she just make things worse?

So caught up in her thoughts, she didn’t quite notice the noise growing outside of Town Hall as well. Soon, though, the furious chanting caught her attention, and dread pooled in her gut: the workers had finally lost their patience. Despite Diana insisting no going against the law during the strike, there was a contingent of the strikers who demanded more direct action than just passively waiting it out. Raven had hinted that this was coming, but Clarke didn’t think it would be so soon.

The door to the meeting room banged open, and Bellamy strode out, expression dark. He almost didn’t see her, but she caught his sleeve. He froze at the contact, his eyes widening in concern.

“Cla--Miss Griffin,” he corrected hastily, throwing a glance to his peers in the room behind him, though he didn’t remove her hand from his forearm. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I am here to talk to you,” she replied. “About the workers. Something has to be done.”

“Oh, please, do tell me how to do my job. Again.”

She ignored the snide tone, huffing. “This isn’t the time. I have friends, friends who have sent me here to ask for your help. I know you hate this strike more than anyone, and not just because your mill is closed. You can help them, Bellamy.”

“I’m trying!” His voice echoed in the cavernous lobby, the desperate sound bouncing around the vaulted ceilings, petering out in helpless frustration. More quietly, he seethed, “The owners just won’t see reason, and I can’t force them to compromise.”

“Then go out there and talk to your workers,” she urged, pulling him towards the door to the front steps, ignoring the rise in the rioting noise from outside. “That’s all they want, someone who will listen to them. And that could be you.”

“Listening won’t be enough, and I won’t be the patronizing ass that makes them false promises.”

“It’s a start, and they won't be false. You can do this."

“Then what? Since you seem to make all the rules now.”

Clarke glared up at him, but she made her fists unclench from her skirts when she saw the restless way he was pacing, scrubbing his face with his large hands.

“We’ll figure it out--together.”

That stopped him short, his gaze snapping to hers, surprise and curiosity flickering there.

“Go,” she insisted, pushing him one last time towards the front door.

Grimness settled into the lines on his face, which were too numerous for someone his age. She watched his shoulders straighten as he reached for the doorknob, his chin tipping upwards as he stepped out to greet the angry masses outside.

Jeers arose from the gathered strikers as the door shut behind him, shouted demands peppering the insults. Clarke held her breath, hoping everyone would keep their tempers. Bellamy tried his best, but the crowd had been whipped up into such a frenzy that they would barely let him talk. Unable to hold back any longer, she burst outside.

“He’s trying to help!” She shouted, throwing herself against the balcony railing. “Please, listen!”

“It’s no use,” he muttered, clamping onto her upper arm.

“Bellamy,” she pleaded. “Please, they need you.”

Even over the noise, she heard his sharp intake of breath. Then, the police whistles sounded.

“Damn it!” Bellamy groaned. Before she could stop him, he ran down the stairs and into the crowd below, shouting for the men on horses to stay back and urging those gathered to flee to safety.

It did little good, though, and Clarke watched in horror as the rioters and the police clashed. Many of the strikers did flat-out run, panic finally settling in. Heart in her throat, she watched the crowd jostle Bellamy mercilessly, even as he tried to stop the police from cracking down. Soon she lost sight of him, and then her feet were carrying her down the stairs into the mess below too. Elbowing her way through, she ducked flailing fists and sprawled limbs, trying to find Bellamy. A flash of brown, a brief snatch of his furious voice shouting at the police to _stand down!_ was all she got before a looming blue figure swung his arm out without looking, his baton striking her hard on her temple. Crumpling, she collapsed, the violent world around her falling up in a swirl of smeared color and muffled sound.

There was pressure on her ankle, and a sharp jab to her ribs, and then shouting, so much shouting, directly over her. She groaned when warmth clutched at her waist, pulling her over. Then she was rushing upwards again, steel support beneath her knees and back.

“I’ve got you,” a strained voice whispered. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

She burrowed into the warmth surrounding her, nestling her nose against soft fabric, and certainty settled in her frantically beating heart that whoever had her meant every word.

* * *

When the voice spoke again, it was shakier, but also louder. “She’s bleeding still! Get me a bandage, a rag, anything!”

Clarke hissed as a minute later cold, wet pressure bore down on her temple.

“That hurts,” she muttered, moving her head away.

“Stay still.”

Clarke blinked her eyes open to find that the gruff, worried voice belonged to Bellamy.

“You’re alright,” she sighed, glancing away from his worried expression to find herself in the sitting room of the Blake house, lying on one of their couches.

“You’re not,” he muttered, jaw clenching as he probed her wound again.

“It’s just a little bump.”

“A little--!”

“Bellamy,” Octavia hissed, bustling into the room with a glass of water and more wet cloths. “Quiet. She doesn’t need you yelling in her ear.”

“I’m sorry.”

Clarke shot him an exasperated look, because the guilt in his voice was for more than just the noise he had made.

“I’m fine,” she insisted, struggling to sit up. Bellamy tried to pin her down, but Octavia batted his hand away, supporting Clarke from behind until she had her bearings.

“You’re not fine!” Bellamy argued, absently placing a hot hand on her knee.

Clarke inhaled slowly, fighting the way her vision sent the room spinning. The motion distorted his features for a second, which made him look as if he was panic-stricken, something much too open and vulnerable for Bellamy Blake to be showing her, even now.

“I’m _fine_ ,” she repeated, hopefully for the last time, holding up a hand to Octavia’s protests. “I just need to go home.”

Bellamy stood, as if to use his height to keep her sitting. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“So you’re a doctor now?”

“Are you?”

“Considering I snuck into the medical classes at the university where my father taught, and my mother trained me in home medicine as well, yes, I’m close enough.”

The argument that was no doubt about to spill from his parted lips never escaped, as a commotion at the door sounded.

“Bellamy,” Aurora called sharply from the hall. “The police chief is looking for you!”

He didn’t move, at least not until Aurora shouted for him again, a tinge of steel in her voice. Huffing angrily, Bellamy reached out, his hand hovering over Clarke’s shoulder for a moment before he squeezed it tightly.

“Stay,” he whispered, this thumb ghosting over her collarbone. “Please, stay.”

She swallowed, because words eluded her. Instead, she watched him drop his head, pulling away reluctantly before he strode out of the house, no doubt to deal with the aftermath of the riot. Every part of her ached to go with him, to keep her promise of _together_ , but the painful pounding in her head held her back. While going with him was not an option, she also knew that she couldn’t remain at the Blake’s any longer. For just another moment, Clarke let Octavia hover next to her, chattering worriedly, before she rose and bade her a firm farewell. Octavia’s mouth set into a grim line, but Clarke wasn’t going to be swayed, so with a wobbling curtsy, she left the upset girl behind.

It was a long walk back to Ark Street, but nobody bothered her. In fact, nobody was around at all, everyone clearly too frightened to venture out after what had happened at Town Hall. Even her house was quiet, and she looked upwards in thanks that neither her mother nor her father waylaid her as she trudged up to her room.

When Clarke lay down on her unmade bed--dusty shoes, blood-spotted dress, and all--a hollowness blossomed in her chest, and she shivered. It was cold here, alone in her room, and though she knew she was safe behind the walls of her own home, it was a long time before she fell asleep, missing something she wasn’t quite sure she even wanted.

* * *

The next morning, Clarke and her mother hurried down to the workers’ district, slipping into the makeshift clinic for the riot injuries and asking to be put to work. Work they did, until Clarke lost count of the wounds she stitched and broken bones she set. She didn’t see Raven or Murphy, half-relieved and half-worried at their absence. The sun was sinking low in the sky before she and her mother packed up, promising to be back the rest of the week.

The next batch of days passed much in the same way, as rioters kept trickling in to the clinic, worsening wounds drawing them out of hiding. She had finally seen Murphy, but under unfortunate circumstances. He had been called to collect Reese Lemkin, as her father Tor, desperate as he was, had joined the rioters and succumbed to a blow to the head.

“We’ll take care of her,” he promised Clarke gruffly, but she could see the worry in his eyes. Income had been thin before the strike with the number of mouths they had to feed, and now their finances were even more dire. So, she slipped Murphy a few coins from her pocket, and the fact that he took them without protest made her heart ache.

Her concern twisted into fury when she learned some days later that Diana, the woman who had spearheaded this strike, had disappeared from the city one night, taking a few close confidantes and the rest of the union savings with her.

“We’re done,” Raven said in a flat tone. “We lost.”

Clarke didn’t know what to say, because it was looking quite bleak. Some of the mill owners were using the violence of the riot, though that had not been the fault of the crowd, to justify not giving in to the strike. Because workers were starving, they were beginning to relent and break rank from the workers’ union. Clarke could see it in her patients’ faces, the defeat and resignation. Still, people like Raven and Murphy, the ringleaders of the strike, probably wouldn’t be able to find work, even if they desperately wanted it. The mill owners were going to hold grudges, Clarke knew that, and there wasn’t much other work to be found in Mechton.

Raven and Murphy didn’t ask her to go to Bellamy again, for which she was glad. Her stomach rolled every time she thought of meeting him again, because she still felt his hands ghosting over her cheek. It made her flush, and then shiver, and she was being selfish, avoiding him and not advocating for the workers, but she couldn’t bring herself to call on him.

Then he was there in her parlor one afternoon, spine stiff and face impassive.

“Miss Griffin,” he said gruffly, tipping his head forward.

“My father isn’t here,” she blurted.

His fingers curled at his side, and then he walked slowly over to the door and closed it. “I’m not here to see your father.”

Her heart began to pound, because Bellamy looked quite determined. “Oh.”

“Miss Griffin, Clarke--” he paused, looking at her carefully. He took her confused silence for acceptance apparently, as then he continued, “There has been talk. About you and I.”

“Talk?”

“Servants, workers, my own--there has been talk, about the riot, and how we...how I behaved. I’ve come here to rectify it.”

“You do not need to,” Clarke offered hastily, stepping forwards, then stopping because even one foot closer to him was too close. “There is nothing to apologize for--”

“I’m not here to apologize,” he said sharply.

She bristled, tipping her chin up to meet his stony gaze. “Then why are you here? What needs to be rectified?”

“Your reputation.”

Clarke barked out a laugh, then clamped a hand over her mouth when his eyes flashed dangerously. “My reputation is not something I hold particularly dear. And neither do my parents. We’re quite progressive that way, even if we are from the south.”

His jaw ticked, and then he said, “It is expected--”

“I rarely do what is expected of me.”

“It is _expected,_ ” he pushed onward, and forward, coming much too close, only a breath away. “That the way we acted, that there is an attachment--”

“Attachment!”

“One that must now be solidified.”

Panic clawed at Clarke’s chest, watching Bellamy and his blank expression, his clenched fingers, and the frustration in his eyes. Oh, how he must hate her for putting him in this position.

“No,” she said, shaking her head vehemently. “No.”

“Clarke,” he warned, voice hardening. “You can’t run from this.”

“I’m not running.”

“Aren’t you?” His head dipped down, just the slightest bit.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It could work, Clarke.”

She laughed, a high-pitched frantic noise. “You must be joking. Us, together, marriage? That would be a disaster.”

“Would it, really? At first I would have said the same, but--”

“But what?”

“Am I alone in this then?” His gaze flicked to her lips.

She shivered, feeling his own breath wisp against her mouth. “Alone in what?”

“This,” he whispered, then bent down, slowly, hesitantly, as if waiting for her to jerk away. She couldn’t though, caught between reluctance and curiosity. For a brief moment, curiosity won out, and she felt his lips brush against hers, and electricity shot down her spine. The shock of it made her break away, though, panic flooding through her.

“ _No_ ,” she insisted. “No. That isn’t--no.”

His jaw clenched. “I apologize. That was forward of me, but you must see there is no better way to fix this situation. I think we could at least try--”

“There’s nothing to fix!”

“People are talking, Clarke!” He shouted suddenly, his cool reserve finally breaking. “They are saying that with the way we’ve been acting, fighting in public and arguing about the mill, that there is an understanding between us, and not necessarily an honorable one. They think I’ve compromised you, that I’ve reached beyond my station, and if we don’t marry--”

She barely heard his words, the blood was rushing in her ears so loudly.

“There will be no marriage!” Clarke hissed, tears beginning to sting her eyes as she stepped back suddenly. Her parents had always promised her that convenience or propriety would never factor into her marriage options, that she could live however she chose, even if the rest of society disapproved. They had even respected her relationship with Lexa. _We’ll always take care of you,_ her father had promised. She didn’t think he would be swayed by Bellamy and his argument, but she was too scared of being rushed into something she wasn’t completely sure of to find out. “I will only marry for love, and we aren’t--I don’t...I will not marry you, not now, not ever!”

The silence following her pronouncement was deafening, and she inhaled sharply at the deep hurt that flashed across Bellamy’s face.

“Well then, princess,” he drawled, enunciating each syllable, sharply, venomously. “I’m sorry to have ruined your afternoon, with my offer and my presence. I won’t deign to bother you again.”

He stepped backwards, his whole expression shuttered, and she tried to speak, to explain, that maybe if she had more _time_. Then, she blinked, and all she saw was his shadow disappearing down the hallway.

His name stuck in her throat, and she kept trying to call out, but it was lodged there, blocking all sound, all air. Her breaths were short and labored as she sunk down into a nearby chair, wondering why her panic was rising, instead of receding. It ate at her, making the hollowness inside her--the hole that had been there since after the riot-- grow larger, larger, larger, until she felt it would consume her entirely.

* * *

 

For days their conversation echoed in her mind, all of her anger and pride settling like stones in her churning gut. With her help no longer needed at the clinic, Clarke spent restless hours pacing the house. She pulled out book after book from her father’s study and read a few paragraphs, only to grow bored, snap it shut, and shove it back on the shelf. She paced into the kitchen, brewing tea that would grow cold before she even remembered to drink it. She sketched scenery from outside, or from her memories of Arcadia, but her pencil tip always seemed to find its way to outlining dark eyes over a freckled nose or shading strong lines on large, familiar hands. She ignored the way her parents watched her, slipping careful glances at her and then each other out of the corners of their eyes.

It was only when talk at dinner one night turned to The Great Exhibition in London that Clarke felt purpose surge through her again.

“You should go,” her father remarked with a smile at her piqued interest. “I’ve heard from my old university friends that the surgery exhibits are particularly intriguing.”

Her mother added, “I’m positive Thelonious and Wells would be happy to escort you.”

“I think I will go,” Clarke decided, shooting them a small grin in thanks.

Her excitement at seeing the newest advances in technology around the world only grew as she planned her trip, packed up her things, and purchased her ticket. Still, when the train pulled out of the station, a soft pang shot through her at leaving Mechton behind, even if only for a week or so. It was odd to see the cityscape she had grown so used to give way to rolling hills and shady tree groves. It was almost too bright for her, staring out the window as the countryside flashed by in a blur. She breathed a sigh of relief when she arrived in London, the urban clamber and bustle now more comforting to her than anything else.

Wells swept her up into a dramatic hug when he met her at the station.

“You survived!” He gasped in mock-astonishment. “No suffocation on dirty, dirty city air.”

She rolled her eyes at his reference to her many rants on the downfalls of city living before she had departed for Mechton. “I did indeed survive, and with all of my manners intact too.”

“You had manners?”

Clarke pursed her lips and glared at him. “You are the worst friend.”

“And yet you come to visit me anyways.”

“I came to see the exhibits, not you.”

“Ah! The truth comes out.”

He grinned down at her, twining her arm through his as he walked them outside. Fondness blossomed in Clarke’s chest, and she hugged Wells’ arm tightly. “I missed you,” she said softly, leaning her head against his shoulder.

“The same to you,” he replied, squeezing his hand over hers.

Thelonious’ welcome at their home was calmer but just as warm as his son’s, and Clarke easily fell into her old routine with them, listening to updates on their most outrageous legal cases and regaling them with stories from her time up north in turn.

They were just as eager as her to attend the Exhibition, and the next few mornings were spent rushing to arrive before the crush overwhelmed the site. Amazement overpowered every other emotion as she viewed exhibit after exhibit, reveling in the exciting advances around her. She couldn’t wait to tell Raven about the daguerreotypes and Murphy about the new Colt revolvers. It was all so distracting, that often she found herself wandering off from Wells and Thelonious, striking out on her own when something caught her fancy.

A bit surprisingly, pride bloomed inside her when she saw some cotton looms featured, their creaking and clanking kindling up memories of her new life. Their noise echoed above the chattering crowd, calling to her like a siren song, and it was only when she was a few feet away that she noticed another familiar sound.

“Our technology is some of the best in the world,” the rough, low voice proclaimed, so full of certainty that the crowd surrounding Bellamy Blake nodded without hesitation. “And it’s only going to keep getting better. The future is in industry, and in cotton, my friends, I can promise you that.”

She hadn’t known he was going to be here, but now that she had found him, she couldn’t tear herself away. The onlookers launched question after question at him, and he answered them all with a confident tone and a grin. He was in his element, talking about what he knew best and to those who had a keen interest in it. She had never seen him speak with so much passion, except on occasion at her house when they were discussing philosophy, or the few times she had seen him arguing over workers’ rights with his fellow mill owners. Still, those had been in small, relatively private groups. Here, where his fervor had space to breathe and to thrive, it filled up the entire room, infecting each listener with enthusiasm and hope. He was speaking in a way that inspired someone, that persuaded them to follow him, to believe in him, that in different circumstances would convince people to fight and die for him.

“Well then,” she murmured breathlessly to herself, watching his flushed cheeks and bright eyes from a distance, not daring to move closer.

It didn’t matter though, because eventually he found her, freezing up for the slightest second before turning his gaze back to his rapt audience. Clarke allowed the crowd to slowly shepherded her towards the front, not willing to fight against the tide. Her pulse quickened the closer she got, not knowing if he was going to acknowledge her, given how their last meeting had gone.

It was Octavia who greeted her first, though her welcome was a bit more reserved than usual. No doubt she had surmised the poor outcome of her brother’s marriage offer. Still, Clarke managed to draw her into an animated conversation regarding the exhibits, only pausing when a large man in a soldier’s uniform appeared at their side.

“Lincoln Crewe,” Octavia said, an excited twinkle in her eye. “We met on the way here.”

Clarke suppressed a smile at the way the couple looked at each other and seemingly nothing else. With nowhere else to look herself, she found her gaze locking with Bellamy’s, amusement and annoyance flickering there as he regarded his sister and her new admirer. When he realized she was watching him, though, his face lost its expressiveness, tensing into the neutral mask she knew too well.

“I thought you would’ve come to London to get away from our way of life,” he commented as Octavia and Lincoln became preoccupied with their own conversation.

“It seems I can’t escape it, true,” she admitted. “But that may not be such a bad thing.”

The words slipped out unconsciously, and it startled both of them. He considered her for a long moment, too long for her liking.

“Are you looking for investors while you’re here?” She asked to fill the silence, then immediately regretted such a personal question. Bellamy had made it quite clear that he did not care for her nosing about his business at the mill.

His shoulders tensed, but his tone was civil when he responded, “Not at the moment. I’m too busy trying to satisfy the ones I currently have.”

“They are not happy with your progress?”

“Not particularly.”

“But your mill is the most productive in Mechton! And your product is by far better quality--anyone with an ounce of sense, or taste, knows that.”

His eyebrows shot up, and the corners of his lips tugged upwards. “Do they.”

“They do,” Clarke mumbled, ducking her head to hide her blush.

“Well, then maybe you can speak with my investors,” he replied dryly. “Show them their error.”

She stifled a laugh, toying with a loose thread on her skirt. “Someone ought to.”

“Someone ought to what?”

Clarke’s head shot up, finding Wells at her side.

“Got lost again, hm?” He teased.

“I believe you were the one who wandered away from me this time.”

He sighed dramatically. “I suppose the lady is always right.”

“Too right,” she agreed with a grin.

“Clarke?” Octavia prompted, curiosity in her voice.

Hastily, Clarke made the introductions, not missing the inane way Wells and Bellamy sized each other up. She pinched Wells’ arm to get him to stop, making him grunt and then shoot her an amused glance.

“So these are the friends that have dazzled you with modern life and convinced you to stay up north,” he joked after she had finished.

Bellamy pursed his lips, and Octavia laughed. “Oh, I doubt we have that much of a hold on Clarke.”

“You’d be surprised,” Wells muttered, flicking a glance at Bellamy, who admittedly had been an unintentional feature of her stories about Mechton, Clarke belatedly realized. Stealthily, she stepped on Wells’ toe, but that just made him grin wider.

Bellamy, however, grew tenser by the minute, his shoulders rising slightly as he folded his arms over his chest. He barely spoke a word, though not even Clarke could manage to get one in edgewise once Octavia and Wells had started trading notes on sightseeing in London.

“Octavia,” he interrupted finally when the conversation veered towards future plans for their groups to meet up. “We should go.”

With a huff, Octavia bade her farewells, and Clarke was genuinely sorry to see her go, especially as Lincoln had seemed to have interesting information regarding one of the artists in the Exhibition that she had yet to see. The Blakes and their friend departed, and it took Clarke a minute to yank her gaze away from Bellamy’s retreating back, her eyes fixed on dark brown curls brushing against his coat collar.

“Well, now I see why you didn’t take me up on my offer of marriage last year,” Wells teased quietly. “You were waiting for someone like him.”

Clarke rolled her eyes. “Oh yes. Because offering to marry someone just so they wouldn’t have to move away to a strange place is a girl’s dream proposal.”

“You wound me, madam.”

“Oh, hush,” Clarke admonished, though she made sure there was no lingering hurt in his eyes. A proposal from Wells might have been serious at an earlier point in their life, and her rejection would have been the end of them altogether. He had moved on a few years ago, though, and if Thelonious was correct, Wells was now courting a local girl--Maya, she recalled.

“So Blake hasn’t won your heart?” Wells asked, his tone carefully neutral.

Clarke found herself lost for words, affirming words which should have come easily. Instead, nothing sensible surfaced, and unease gripped her.

“Bellamy is--”

“Bellamy, hm?”

“Yes, _Bellamy_ ,” Clarke emphasized, not caring that her first-name basis with him practically answered Wells’ question on its own. “Bellamy is not someone who cares much for winning hearts. Buying them, perhaps.”

The joke rang hollow in her ears, though, because she knew there was so much more to him than the stoic industrial captain he made himself out to be. Frustration pricked at her, and she shook her head, trying to settle her senses.

Wells just took her arm in his, clearly seeing far too much. “Let’s go home,” he offered kindly, guiding her back into the enthusiastic crush that flooded the Crystal Palace.

Clarke wasn’t sure where home was anymore, however, and when she tried to picture it, it came in flashes of grey buildings and brown eyes, looking far too much like nothing she had ever thought she wanted.

* * *

 

When Clarke returned to Mechton a few days later, there was a letter waiting for her, written in Raven’s cramped, hurried scrawl.

“I came straight away,” Clarke exclaimed as she burst into her friend’s home. “What’s wrong?”

Raven threw herself at Clarke, her eyes red and swollen. “I need your help,” she announced after pulling away from their hug.

“Anything.”

“I don’t even know where to start,” Raven sighed, sitting heavily in a nearby chair.

Eventually the story came out: some years ago, one of her childhood friends and a former sweetheart, Finn Collins, had joined the Navy, hoping to send money back to her and Murphy as extra support. Something had happened to him while fighting, though, and he had come back a different person. No one had known how to help him, and he had disappeared, only for Raven to find his name in the papers last month, accused of killing some London tavern-goers during a brawl.

“He’s guilty, there is no question of that, because he confessed to me himself,” she explained quietly. “But he’s still my family.”

“What do you need?” It was all Clarke could say, because she knew better than anyone the lengths she would go to protect the ones she loved.

“He’s just passing through town, coming back to say goodbye for good before he moves to Spain. He can’t stay here, because this is the first place the police will look if they catch wind of him.”

“He can stay with my family. I’ll find a way to explain it to them.”

“I can’t thank you enough.”

“I’m here for you Raven, first and always.”

* * *

 

When Finn showed up on her doorstep the next week, she wasn’t quite expecting the quiet, brown-haired man who exuded no air of nervousness regarding his safety. Apparently he trusted Raven enough to keep him safe, though that was as far as Clarke was willing to attest to his character. There was a flippancy to some of his comments that unsettled her, and though she was certainly going to keep her promise to Raven, she was also counting the days until Finn’s departure.

He caused her even more unintentional trouble when Bellamy rang at the door, stopping by to return some books he had borrowed from her father.

“Thank you,” she said, pulse racing as she stood in the door, clutching the returned items to her chest. “It was kind of you to bring them by.”

Awkward silence fell as she did not extend an invitation for him to come inside, and she didn’t miss the way that his expression hardened at that slight.

“I should have known I might not be welcome here, not after what happened between us,” he ground out, shifting backwards slightly.

“No!” Clarke blurted, despite knowing she was stuck. She wouldn’t betray Raven’s trust by potentially letting Bellamy discover Finn’s presence here. “I swear, you are welcome.”

His eyes darted to the entryway behind her, frowning. “Ah. You already have company.”

Clarke stifled a curse, figuring he had spotted Finn’s coat, hat, and bag that were no doubt still sitting on the entryway table where he had plopped them upon his arrival. “No, it’s nobody--”

Her weak protest was cut off by distant, markedly male laughter from down the hall, as Finn was proving to be very entertained by both of her parents. The way Bellamy’s eyes flashed in betrayal at the sound made her sick to her stomach.

“Good day, Miss Griffin,” he said brusquely with a tip of his hat, sweeping down the steps before she could stop him. She was starting to hate this habit of watching him walk away.

Finn’s stay did not last much longer, but it did not get much better either. Clarke escorted him to the station with Raven to catch his late-night train out of town, trying to give them as much privacy as she could without wandering off too far, as it wasn’t the best part of town at this time of night.

Alert as she was, she still didn’t notice the man lurking in the shadows until he had lunged for her purse. She cried out, throwing a punch like Wells had taught her, but it wasn’t until Finn tackled her attacker that she wrenched free. The two men fought, only stopping when the stranger stumbled backwards, down the station stairs, his head snapping against the stone with a sickening crack when he landed.

“Are you okay?” Finn huffed, clutching Clarke’s shoulders.

She couldn’t answer, too shocked to do anything but stare at the dead man lying on the landing below them. His eyes were blank and wide open, and blood started to pool underneath his still head.

“Are you hurt?” Finn repeated more frantically, shaking her.

“Finn,” Raven warned. “You need to go, now!”

Apparently the scuffle had made enough commotion to draw the interest of the few station operators lurking around, and Finn barely made it onto the train without more notice.

“Did anybody see us?” Raven hissed as they hurried through the dark streets back to town.

“I don’t know,” Clarke answered, anxiety filling her. “I really don’t know.”

* * *

She got her answer at the market the next day when whispers and titters followed her around the store. Apparently, she had been seen, and she only hoped Raven had escaped their notice. Used to it by now, especially after her not-so-quiet opinions regarding the strike and related issues, Clarke just ignored them, making her purchases and exiting with a few pointed glares of her own.

What she couldn’t ignore was the police officer who was waiting in the parlor at home.

“Sergeant David Miller, miss,” he said with a dip of his head. “I’m here on some--unfortunate business.”

Her heart raced as she sat down, offering tea that he declined with a pained frown.

“Miss Griffin, there was an incident at the train station a few nights ago. A man died.”

Clarke fought to keep her hands still and her gaze on his face. She couldn’t flinch, not now. “How awful.”

“There has been some talk.” He paused, dithering. “This is awkward, miss, but we have an eye-witness who saw the man who killed him, and he also said you were there.”

“Me.”

“You, miss.”

“I was not there.”

“The man said, and I quote: a Miss Griffin, from Arcadia, was there. I knew it because of her hair--blonde and bright, even in the dark of the station.”

“I am certainly not the only blonde woman who lives in Mechton, Sergeant. And if it was really that dark, how could he have seen the woman’s face clearly enough to identify her?”

The sergeant looked up from his notes sharply, lips pursed. “You see my problem, miss. He seemed so positive. So you say you were not there?”

“I was not.”

“Then I will take you statement as a full denial.”

Clarke waited with bated breath while he made his notes, slapping the book closed when he finished and stood. With a tense smile, she escorted him to the front door.

“One last thing, miss,” he announced over his shoulder on the stairs outside. “If the man does not retract his statement, there will be an inquiry, in front of the magistrate. You will have to testify. In court.”

Clarke clutched tightly against the doorframe, letting the rough wood bite into her palms. “I understand you completely, Sergeant Miller. My statement remains the same. Good day.”

 _Good day indeed_ , she thought darkly, closing the door behind him. Leaning her forehead against it, she sighed, pushing down her regrets at taking Finn in. It had been for Raven, and she wouldn’t change that, but her decision and the consequences could affect her parents too, and they had just begun to settle into their life here. She let out a choking laugh, because a few months ago, she would have welcomed any reason for her life here to be uprooted. Now, though, for a dozen reasons, she was suddenly scared of losing it.

For days she startled at every sound, dreading every knock that could be the police coming for her. Her mother hovered, stroking her hair, and her father tried to draw her into more and more outrageous political debates. One night she even heard them talking about asking Wells to come visit, but then Sergeant Miller showed up in her parlor once again, looking sheepish.

“I just wanted to tell you, miss, that there will be no further action taken with this investigation.”

“Oh,” Clarke breathed, fighting against the relieved smile pulling at her lips.

“It has been advised that whatever the man saw, if you said you were not there, then you were not.”

“Oh,” she repeated, more confused this time. “May I ask, why? What changed?”

“It was brought to our attention that your character was above reproach.”

“By whom?” Clarke blurted, genuinely curious.

Sergeant Miller’s brow shot up, wry amusement in his expression. “Someone who knows you quite well apparently. He said that if you had a reason to be at the train station late at night with a man, you would either come clean, or if you didn’t, then there was a good reason, one free of wrong-doing.”

Guilt twisted her stomach in knots, as well as a little bit of embarrassment. There was no doubt in her mind who ‘he’ was, given that she was very positive that she had met the son of this sergeant before, and he and Blake were good friends.

“But I was not there,” she repeated slowly, trying to figure out exactly why Blake had defended her to the police. Given their last meeting, she would have expected him to throw her to the wolves.

“No. You were not, as you have said,” Miller sighed, standing. “I hope the next time we meet, it will be under better circumstances, Miss Griffin.”

“Agreed.” She dipped into a curtsy, following him to the door, so baffled that it took her a minute to close the door behind him.

Although the inquest had gone up in smoke, it wasn’t as easy to shake the gossip. Raven offered to scare off the worst offenders, but Clarke rolled her eyes.

“It’s fine,” she reassured her friend. “It will blow over soon.”

She was right, to some extent. Soon enough the gossip turned to Octavia Blake’s engagement--a whirlwind affair that shocked everyone. _A soldier_ , they said. _So quickly_ , others snickered. Clarke defended her where she could, but she also was not sure if Octavia would appreciate her opinion, not after everything that had happened between her and Bellamy. Aurora certainly didn’t, and Clarke couldn’t blame her for the icy stares she gave her whenever their paths crossed.

She tried to stay away from Bellamy, she really did. For some weeks it was easy, because production was picking up, and if the rumors were correct, he needed all the product he could get to satisfy his investors. Worry curled her in gut every time she heard someone mention how his finances were beginning to strain, the effects of the strike finally catching up. It was odd, the fierce need she felt to make sure that he was alright. Unsettling as it was, it didn’t hold a candle to the way anxiety clutched at her chest when she finally did see him again, amongst the shelves at Cartwig’s Bookshop.

The aisle was narrow, so there was no getting out of a greeting, no matter how much his frown expressed that wish. So they made small talk amongst the history texts, his eyes not meeting hers, and her cheeks growing more and more heated.

“I must thank you,” she finally said. “For what you did with Sergeant Miller. Advocating on my behalf.”

“I didn’t do it for you.”

“Still, I--”

“I did it for your father. He does good work here. The way he’s convinced the mill owners to let the younger children work schooling into their schedules, and offering night classes for the adults? I would not, could not let that be taken away, just because of your poor judgement.”

Clarke bristled, but her guilt kept her biting words from spilling out. “I see,” she said briskly instead. “Then I thank you on his behalf.”

“Do I get to at least know why you were at that station?”

“No, you don’t.”

He tensed, and she sighed, figuring she owed him at least part of an explanation.

“I was helping out a friend,” she said slowly. “So it’s not my secret to tell. I’m sorry.”

So quickly that she almost didn’t notice it, his hand jerked forward, but then just as quickly, it formed a fist, falling back down.

“Good day, Miss Griffin.” His tone was gruff, but the way he looked at her made her stay in place.

“Clarke!”

She whipped around to see a wide-eyed Octavia.

“I hear congratulations are in order,” Clarke offered brightly in distraction. “Mr. Crewe is a lucky man.”

Not even her grudge could keep Octavia from grinning sappily at the felicitations, apparently. “He seems to think so, though I may be getting the better end of the deal.”

“I would agree on that,” Bellamy muttered behind her, but it was entirely fond.

“You’re so rude,” Octavia complained with a grin.

“I’m sure Miss Griffin is plenty used to my uncouth manners,” he drawled, brushing past Clarke in a wave of heat.

“As you are mine,” Clarke shot back, letting him know she was starting to take responsibility for the mess they had landed themselves in as well. 

That earned her surprised looks from both siblings, but the moment was lost when Aurora rounded the corner, a young woman with light brown hair and piercing eyes trailing her.

“We should be going,” she commanded stiffly, beckoning to her two children.

The Blake siblings obliged their mother, murmuring bland farewells to Clarke. Bellamy, though, looked back one last time at the end of the aisle, holding her gaze.

“Bellamy?” A ringing voice called out, and Clarke’s heart stuttered as she realized it belonged to the woman who had come in with Aurora. “You coming?”

“Yes,” he replied, closing his eyes. “I’m coming.”

Clarke snapped her gaze back to the bookshelves, because she didn't need to watch him leave to know she had to let him go.

* * *

 

If Octavia’s real engagement caused a furor in Mechton, it did not hold a candle to the news of the rumored courtship between Bellamy and Miss Echo Asgott. The two couples went everywhere together, apparently: church, the park, carriage rides, even to the shipping yards. It seemed that Miss Asgott’s father was involved in shipping, and everyone found it utterly fitting that one of the city’s most prominent tradesman would enter into a union that benefited him economically.

Clarke wanted to protest every time she heard that argument. She remembered the way Bellamy had looked that afternoon in her parlor, that flash of emotion in his eyes when he had suggested they marry. Though he had cited propriety as a reason, she had known, even then, that he would settle for nothing less than a true attachment in his choice of wife. It had scared her then, but now it just broke her heart. If the rumors were true, and he was considering marrying Miss Asgott, it was because he felt something for her. Clarke had lost him, without even knowing when she had begun to wish for him to be hers.

She tried to hide her feelings better this time, not wanting to worry her parents or Raven. Still, her father knew her too well.

“Come to London with me,” he urged her one night in his study, hand resting on her knee. “I know you were just there, but you seem to need another break from Mechton.”

“I’m fine,” she argued, flashing him a brittle smile. “Really.”

“I noticed Bellamy hasn’t been around much. Seems he has other things to occupy his time than our lessons.”

She stared straight at the fire. “The mill is having issues, I’ve heard.”

“Mm, right. The mill.”

“Father,” she warned, knowing he was not going to dance around this issue much longer.

He chuckled. “Daughter.”

“So when do you leave again?” She sniffed.

“Aren’t going to miss me then, I see.”

“Not a bit.”

He laughed softly again, rising and pressing a kiss to the top of her head. She sighed, knowing she’d be counting the minutes until he returned.

“I love you,” she murmured as he slipped into the hall.

“I love you too, Clarke,” he replied over his shoulder with a warm smile. “With all my heart.”

* * *

When Mr. Kane showed up on their doorstep two weeks later, a grave, sorrowful look in his eyes and unaccompanied by her father, Clarke nearly slammed the door in his face.

“No,” she gasped, not getting enough air. “No. No, no, no.”

“Clarke?” Her mother exclaimed, rushing down the hallway.

“No!” Clarke cried out, tears welling up as Kane stepped inside.

“I’m sorry,” he rasped out, his own voice raw with grief. “I am so sorry.”

Jake Griffin had died three days earlier, in a freak accident during a demonstration of a new furnace system that he had been commissioned to advise on the design of. The devastation of the news leached everything from Clarke’s world: color, sound, feeling. She didn’t lose her purpose though, not when her mother couldn’t stop crying and there were so many things to be done. Their belongings needed to be packed, the house needed to be rented, and goodbyes needed to be said. Without Jake’s teaching income, they could not remain in Mechton. The Jahas had already asked them to come to London, and Kane had vowed to support them, as long as needed.

“Jake was a close friend,” he argued when Clarke had tried to refuse. “We had already talked about this, though in passing I’ll admit. He had no intention of leaving you two so soon. I have no family of my own, and more money than I know what to do with. Please, let me help. Please.”

Without other options, Clarke swallowed her pride and had their packed-up possessions addressed to Kane’s house in London. She was desperate to see Wells, to be around those who had known her father as long as she, who would know her pain.

So she hugged Raven goodbye, teary-eyed, and made Murphy promise to ask Bellamy for work again, as the rest of the mill owners unanimously had refused to hire someone who had been such an instigator of the strike.

“He will help you, if you give him good reason to,” she insisted, clasping his hand tightly.

“Not bloody likely,” Murphy muttered, but he grinned grimly at her in farewell, and she knew he would take her advice at some point, though maybe not right away.

Calling on the Blake's to say a final farewell was necessary, but also something Clarke dreaded. So much in fact, that she put it off until the very day they were going to leave. The carriage that would take them to the train station waited outside the mill, in fact, packed and ready to go.

Octavia hugged her tightly, tears in her eyes despite their differences, as loss was something that bridged all other kinds of hurt. “It won’t be the same without you here.”

Clarke let out a watery laugh, acknowledging the neutrality of that statement. “No, I’m sure it won’t.”

“Good luck,” Octavia whispered, squeezing her hand one last time.

Even Aurora’s goodbye had less coldness in it than usual, her expression filled with apology as she wished them well with their move back.

Bellamy arrived just as they were heading out the door, slightly out-of-breath and dark curls wet from the snow falling outside.

“I thought we’d missed you,” Clarke said thickly, smiling despite her racing pulse, half-relieved and half-regretting that she would get to see him one last time.

“I just managed to get away,” he said, shaking snow from his jacket. Then, after a careful glance at his mother and sister, he asked, “Can I talk to you?”

Clarke nodded, then let him pull her to the side.

“I wanted to apologize,” he said in a quiet voice. “Raven, she came to me and explained. About that night, at the station.” Clarke’s eyes widened, and Bellamy hurried on. “Not everything, but enough for me to know--enough.”

She couldn’t stop the wry twist of her lips. “So you believe believe me now?”

Bellamy sighed, his own mouth curving upwards. “She only told me what I already knew, really.”

Clarke’s throat closed up, because it was too late, all of this was too late. Feeling their families’ attention start to drift in their direction, she shoved forward the book she had brought for him.  “Here, this is for you. He--he would have wanted you to have it.”

Bellamy’s eyes softened as he took the book from her hand, one of his and her father’s favorites. His fingers brushed against hers, just for a second, and heat blossomed in her belly.

“That was kind of him.”

She flicked a glance up at him, not missing the knowing tone in his voice, the one that said he knew this gift wasn’t just from her father. Words, all of the words she had left to say to him, stuck in her throat, and she couldn’t seem to break the silence, no matter how hard her heart was pounding, urging her to take this one last chance.

Bellamy took it for her. “You really are going?”

Her chest ached at the sadness in his tone, but there was no other answer to give. “Yes. I am. I have to.”

“Will we meet again?”

The hope in his eyes sent a sharp pain through her chest, but she couldn’t lie to him, not in these final moments. So, she settled on the truth instead. “I wish you well, Bellamy Blake.”

Then, before anyone could notice, she rose up onto the balls of her feet and pressed a quick, dry kiss to his cheek. It was cold against her lips, but the way his cheeks reddened made her smile despite the tears threatening to form in her eyes.

He did not watch her as she left the room, but as she climbed into the carriage downstairs, she felt a prickling sensation at the back of her neck. Looking up, she saw a dark shadow in the window above, obscured by the white flurries swirling in the chilly breeze.

She would not lie to him, but she had no qualms about giving herself false hope. So, as the carriage rattled down the crowded, clanging streets she was now going to sorely miss, she let herself whisper one last farewell, one only she would hear.

_May we meet again, Bellamy._

* * *

From the minute they arrived in London and she collapsed in Wells’ arms, time passed in fits and starts for her. The winter was a rough one, which was just as well, for the weather gave her an excuse to stay inside instead of venturing out into society. She had no desire to socialize with anyone but her family and the Jahas. Eventually Maya was included in that group too, as Clarke grew very fond of Wells’ fiancée as the months passed. There was the occasional letter from Raven and Murphy, updating her on their lives back in Mechton. Only once did her thoughts flicker to Bellamy, when her friends mentioned in passing that he had, after a bit of initial grudging reluctance, joined forces with Murphy to create dialogue between the mill owners and workers. Otherwise, she pushed him far from her thoughts; there was no point in dwelling on something that was far out of her reach.

The first time that she laughed since her father’s passing was on a spontaneous trip to Arcadia that Kane had arranged once the snow had disappeared for good. After racing out into the familiar meadow by their old house, Clarke tipped her head back, welcoming the warm sun on her face, stretching her arms out wide, as if she could fill the entire valley with her own body. The giggle bubbled its way from her stomach, up her throat, spilling from her chapped lips into the warm spring air.

“It’s good to see you smile again,” her mother said, tears in her eyes.

“I miss him so much,” she responded, leaning her head on her mother’s shoulder.

“We always will.”

Clarke would always miss her father, but she was surprised to find that she did not miss Arcadia as much as she had expected. It was certainly nice to go back and visit, but she told Wells when she returned that it felt like living in a memory.

“Things change,” he replied softly. “And so do we.”

Spring moved into summer, and Clarke finally took Kane up on his not-so-subtle hint to train her in his investment business. She was growing more and more bored as the days passed, and it was something to occupy her time. It did not come naturally to her, but she liked working with the numbers, and she was shocked when he eventually gave her a very large sum of money of her own to use for her own investments.

“I told you Clarke,” he teased. “I have more money than I know what to do with. You’re a smart women--I’m sure you’ll put it to good use.”

“And if I decide to use this money for personal purposes?”

“Then by all means, there is more where that came from!” Kane replied with a grin.

Clarke left the money untouched for weeks. Wells outright refused her offer to invest in his family’s business, smiling as he told her she wouldn’t get off deciding what to do that easily. Briefly she considered using it for an extended trip to Paris, as Lexa had renewed a slightly awkward, semi-frequent correspondence with her again. It would be an adventure, she figured, something to shake her out of her dull routine in London. Even with that enticement, Clarke couldn’t quite let go of the old hurt she felt whenever she thought of the girl who had left her, and the country, without a word. It had been a tough situation, and Lexa had had responsibilities to her family back in France, but regardless, it had broken Clarke’s heart to have been left behind by someone she had loved so much.

It also would not be fair to Lexa, for her to hint at the promise of starting again, when Clarke knew her heart was very much engaged elsewhere. Half a year later, and she was still holding out on that false promise she had made to herself amidst the winter chill.

So when she heard the shocking rumors of Bellamy’s mill possibly closing down, from Kane himself no less, an idea formed.

“You want me to ask Kane what?” Wells frowned at her from across the table, his chin propped up on his steepled hands.

“I would like you to find out about potential investment opportunities in Mechton, the reasons they might be necessary, what the costs would be, anything like that,” she repeated evenly despite her heartbeat quickening.

Wells sent a dubious glance at her. “Any ‘potential investment opportunities’ in particular?”

She stared straight back, vowing not to give her plan away. “You know. Anything that seems interesting.”

“You mean, anything to do with Blake.”

“You have a wild imagination, my friend.”

“And you are a terrible liar.”

She scowled at him, and he grinned. “Yes, Clarke, I’ll get whatever information about Blake that I can from Kane. But I can’t promise to be subtle about it.”

A week later, he slapped down a pile of papers on her lap, nearly sending the teacup between her knees to the floor.

“Don’t say I never do anything for you,” he sighed dramatically.

She didn’t bother to respond, just hurriedly gathered up the papers, rifling through them until she found what she had been looking for all along.

It turned out that Bellamy had just had a string of really bad financial luck, so bad that he indeed was going to have to close down his mill. Her heart clenched at the thought, knowing how much it would hurt him, and not just because of the loss of all of his hard work. As Murphy told it, their more recent efforts to better the lives of his workers made it one of the best places of employment in Mechton. It must kill Bellamy to know closing down would also affect so many others, and she wasn't about to let that stand.

So few days later, she barged into Wells' office and asked brightly, “You want to do something else for me?”

Her friend groaned, tipping his head back. “I suppose.”

“Good. Then get someone to cover your cases for a few days. We’re going on a trip.”

“Does Maya know about this?”

Clarke smiled. “She’s already packing your bags.”

“Well, then,” he replied dryly. “I can’t wait.”

* * *

 

The train couldn’t go fast enough for Clarke as it wound its way northward. Wells could barely keep up with her when they arrived in Mechton, eager as she was to make her way back through the streets she knew so well now.

Briefly she considered stopping by to visit Raven and Murphy, but then she remembered it was the middle of the day. She might even see them on her way to visit Bellamy.

The air didn’t bother her a bit this time when she paced up the hall towards his office, knocking smartly on the door.

“I should probably wait outside,” Wells said hastily, panting a bit from their race up the stairs.

Before he could leave, though, the door swung open, and Clarke’s heart caught in her throat as she faced--

“Miss Griffin?” The woman asked, clearly surprised.

“Um. Is Bel--is your son around?” Clarke corrected.

Aurora shifted uneasily. “He is out of town at the moment.”

“Oh.”

Silence fell, a much too quiet silence, as Clarke finally realized the looms were not running.

“He really shut it down?” She asked quietly.

“He had no choice.”

There was steel in Aurora’s voice, but also exhaustion in her eyes, and Clarke nodded in understanding.

“I think that I may have a way to help with that, actually.”

For the second time, Aurora looked startled. “And what help could you offer my son?”

Clarke took a deep breath, knowing her answer would address more than just the question the woman had asked out loud. “Far less than he deserves, but as much as I can possibly give.”

Aurora’s gaze turned appraising, and this time it was her turn to nod. “I’m not sure when he’ll be back, as he didn’t tell me where he was going. It could be weeks.”

All of her built-up anticipation flooded away, and it was suddenly hard for her to keep her spine straight. “Oh.”

“Could I pass along the offer?”

“No,” Clarke said hurriedly. “No. It needs to come from me.”

“I see,” Aurora said, and it seemed as if she was fighting a smile. “Then I suggest you return home, Miss Griffin. Try him by letter in a few weeks, and then maybe--maybe then you can visit again.”

Clarke sent her a small smile in return before turning on her heel, and Wells twined his arms through hers as they walked out into the mill yard.

“Where to next?” He asked, though he couldn’t quite help be distracted at the bustling life, in the millyard and the streets, carrying on around them.

“It’s awful, because I should visit my friends, but honestly Wells? I just want to go home.”

“Then home we shall go.”

* * *

 

The ride home seemed even slower than the previous one. Clarke kept her eyes closed for most of the first leg of their trip, not wanting to see the miles she was putting between her and the place where she had left her heart. When the train jolted to a stop in some station, pausing briefly to refuel, she finally opened them, blinking away the weariness from her failed mission.

A flash of brown caught her eye--it couldn’t be. It just couldn’t.

Then he turned, and there Bellamy was, jacket slung over his shoulder, curls unkempt, standing in the middle of the platform like he was looking for something.

A train, he was looking for a train home, Clarke was sure of it, but she had finally found what she was searching for, and she wasn’t about to let him go. So, with a hurried excuse to Wells, she rushed out of the train car and hopped down onto the platform. She fought against the tide of people going to who knows where, clutching her skirts so she wouldn’t trip because she couldn’t take the time to look down at her feet. All she would do was stare at Bellamy, determined not to lose him again.

A train whistled just as she called his name, but his head whipped around anyways.

She saw him mouth her name, and she smiled, nervous and giddy all at once.

“What are you doing here?” He asked, in shock, when she finally arrived in front of him.

“Traveling to London,” she answered, tipping her head up so she could see him fully. It had been a long time since she had had that privilege. “From Mechton, actually.”

“Mechton,” he repeated slowly, hope gathering in his dark eyes.

“Yes. Mechton.”

“And what were you doing in Mechton?”

“Looking for you.”

“Me?”

“Are you going to repeat everything I say?”

He ducked his head, hand coming up to cup the back of his neck, rubbing there slowly. “No.”

“Then are you going to ask why I was looking for you?”

His cheeks were flushed when he caught her gaze again, the question she most desperately wanted to answer written into every line of his face.

“I was looking for you,” she continued, too impatient to wait for him to ask it, “because I have a business that I need to discuss with you.”

“Business.”

She fought the urge to reach out and grab his hand, his tone was so disappointed. “Yes. You see, I’ve recently come into some money, and I have a very particular idea of what I want to do with it.”

“I see.”

Clarke huffed out a laugh, wondering if he was being this intractable on purpose. “Ask me what I want to do with it, Bellamy.”

Warmth lit up his face when she said his name. “What do you want to do with it, Clarke?”

“Well, you see, there is this mill in Mechton. This mill, which produces some of the finest cotton cloth in the country, and is a great mill, and has the potential to become even more great, because its owner cares very deeply about his business, as well as for the people who work for him. This is the type of business that I would be smart to invest in, you see, because I have all this money and it’s doing me no good sitting in the bank, and so I was thinking--”

“You want to buy my mill.”

“ _Invest_ in your mill.”

“Because you feel sorry for me.”

Clarke narrowed her gaze at him, some of her anxiety wearing off when she realized there was humor in his tone. “No, because I love you.”

Bellamy froze, his eyes widening.

“I love you,” Clarke repeated, taking a half-step closer to him. “I love you, and I love your mill and how you put your heart and soul into that place. I love the way you tease your sister and dote on your mother, and the way you care very deeply about your employees. I love you, Bellamy Blake. So, what do you say: do you accept my offer?”

She waited with bated breath as he considered her, a dozen emotions flitting across his face too fast for her to pin them down. Her pulse raced, wondering if she had gambled it all for nothing.

Then he held out his hand for her to take, and it felt like he was offering her the world with that simple gesture. So, in return, she gave him her weighty, whole-hearted answer in as simple a manner, by placing her hand in his and gripping it tightly. Gently, he tugged her to him, so that she could feel his leg step into her skirts, her hips lining up with his as his hands gripped her waist.

“I accept, Clarke Griffin,” he whispered, before lowering his lips to hers, claiming them in a long, heady kiss.

Heat shot through her, warming her more than the sun in Arcadia or the fireplaces in Mechton ever did, because no matter where life led her, her home was here, in the strength and safety Bellamy’s arms.

“And I love you, too,” he murmured when they finally parted.

She grinned, ducking her head with a laugh as she pressed her nose to his chest. He smelled the same: metal and earth, and also now entirely hers.

Her train’s whistle sounded a warning, and she broke away from him, realizing she needed to tell Wells that she wasn’t going home with him. She shouted over her shoulder in explanation to Bellamy, but another whistle cut her off. Without time to stop and explain, she kept pushing forward, breathing heavily when she reached her car.

“Needing this?” Wells said with a grin, holding out her traveling bag.

Clarke smiled back up at him. “You were watching?”

“Hard to miss that little reunion,” he teased.

“I’ll need my things sent up from London.”

“I figured.”

Clarke surged up, giving him a tight hug. “I’ll miss you.”

“Same and always,” he murmured before pulling away. “But I survived a day in Mechton. I bet I could manage a bit longer, you know, if I ever had a reason to visit.”

“You better.”

“I’m happy for you, Clarke.”

“I’m happy, too.”

With one last hug as the final warning bell sounded, she let him go, turning away to hurry back to Bellamy.

Except he was gone when she arrived back on the platform, and nowhere among the dwindling stream of people could she find him. Then, she spotted him stepping up into a car, shoulders hunched as if in defeat.

It took her a minute to catch up to him, and when she did, she called out his name in indignation. “Bellamy Blake!”

He turned around, relief spreading across his face.

“Did you think I was going to let you leave without me?” She demanded, eyebrows raised and smiling as she clutching her bag in front of her with both hands.

“Maybe,” he replied, eyes dancing.

“Then it seems you don’t know everything.”

“And you do?” He said, extending a hand to help her up into the car.

“I know that I’m never letting you go again.”

His fingers interlocked with hers, squeezing tightly. “I’m going to have to hold you to that.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

They slipped into the first unoccupied compartment, and as soon as the door slid shut behind them, Bellamy cupped her face and kissed her, deep and wet, arching her backwards as his fingers curled into her hair.

“You really thought I was going to leave you behind,” she murmured with a grin as he sat and pulled her into his lap so she was straddling him.

“I did not,” he muttered, running his nose up her jaw, then placing a kiss right under her ear, making her breath catch.

“You did so.”

“Is arguing really what you want to be doing right now?”

“No,” she stuttered as he trailed his mouth down her neck, landing at the hollow of her throat.

“Me neither.”

His hands slid around her back, brushing over the fastenings to her dress. She laughed out his name.

“What?”

“Really?”

The heat in his eyes melted into something calmer. “I missed you.”

With a sigh, she knocked her forehead against his. “I missed you, too. But we have some things to figure out.”

“Like?” He started tugging on the ties, and she didn’t particularly want him to stop.

Still. “Your sister and mother. Are they going to be okay with this?”

“They’ll have to be.”

“And I’ll have to write and explain to my mother,” she mused, even as she pressed a kiss to the crook of his neck.

“Clarke?” He asked against the skin of her now exposed shoulder, amusement in his voice.

“Yes?” She chimed back, a smile forming.

“Can we figure this out later?”

There was such yearning in his voice that she couldn’t help but laugh, a happy, clear sound that reverberated in the small compartment. Pulling back, she brushed her thumbs over his cheeks, staring into his eyes, bright with contentment and wanting.

“Whatever the hell you want,” she promised, breaking into a smile as he did the same.

He kissed her again, and she reveled in the joy of it, knowing that however long it had taken them to get here, the many years they would have together in the future were well worth the wait.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first time addressing social issues (i.e. class, race) in fanfic, so if there was something I could've done better in that respect, please let me know! I'd be happy to take advice on that, either in new edits to this fic, or for fics in the future (I mean, I do not plan on writing any historical fics again anytime soon because GOD was it difficult, but in other settings it'd still be useful). 
> 
> Come find me on tumblr (kay-emm-gee)!


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